


Because Brothers Don't Let Each Other Wander In The Dark Alone

by Squash (JeSuisGourde)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 06:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisGourde/pseuds/Squash
Summary: Lip has been Ian's big brother for as long as he can remember. It's always been his job to take care of Ian. Take the beat downs and give advice and ask questions. Maybe now that he's in college he can't do his job like he used to. Only Ian has Mickey now. Mickey Milkovich twitching and scared but solid and stable and still fucking here even when they're driving to Indiana, even when Ian is disappearing from view around the corner.





	Because Brothers Don't Let Each Other Wander In The Dark Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I could have finished this so much faster if my computer hadn't died and been in the shop for a week and a half. Anyway, I just kind of feel like everyone but Fiona seems to agree that Mickey loves Ian (at least in season 5), so I wanted some of Lip's perspective on it.

It's like this: Lip has been Ian's big brother since they were both alive. He was two, almost too young to remember, but you don't forget seeing your brother born on the kitchen table, no matter how young you are, even if you see three more of your siblings born the same way years after.

And Lip has been the big brother ever since. On nights when Monica had been gone for days and Frank was asleep on the bathroom floor of whatever hovel they'd ended up in, and Fiona had taken the meager change from Frank's pockets and crept out the door with a kiss to Ian's forehead and his own and whispered “Take care of Ian for me. Be a good big brother. I love you.”

So that was his job. Take care of Ian. It was his job until suddenly it became his right. He was the big brother, so he had the right to give advice and take the beat downs and ask the questions and be the shoulder to punch or cry on or yell at.

And they tell each other everything. Because for a while, it was Fiona playing mom and then it was just him and Ian, shoulder to shoulder. And maybe for a while he really was a big brother, but by the time he was seven and Ian was five and Debbie came along, they were doing everything together. They told each other everything.

And maybe in high school everything changed. Maybe in high school they both dove headlong into making stupid decisions, perfecting that Gallagher legacy of bullshitting their way through life. Maybe in high school Ian started to realize maybe it was better to keep his cards close to his chest. Like maybe the problem was that even when they were trying to keep secrets, the Gallaghers always had their hand on the table.

But he's still the big brother.

So he's still fucking pissed when he finds out Ian's fucking Kash. Ian says he doesn't understand but _fuck that_. Fuck that. Kash is practically twice his age and probably definitely doesn't love Ian at all.

He's not much happier when Ian swaps Kash out for Mickey. Okay, so he shouldn't fucking talk, they've both got Milkovich side pieces or whatever. But Mickey? Stupid, dirty, loud, _violent_ Mickey Milkovich?

So when all the shit goes down with Mickey and that whore and the wedding and Ian drunk and yelling, Lip thinks, good, now he'll find someone better. Now he'll move on and maybe find some guy that's not an asshole and closeted to boot. Doesn't expect to find Ian has disappeared. Doesn't expect to be cornered in the can by a couple of fatigues telling him Ian's used his name to fuck off to the _military_. Doesn't expect to being going to Mickey about it. But he sees the way Mickey's eyes cut away at Ian's name, the way his words loosen when they're talking about him. He sees it.

And he's the big brother, and they used to tell each other everything, but Ian's body is flickering and restless under the flickering and restless lights of the club, and Lip tries but not very hard to get Ian to come home. Because he remembers the look of utter devastation on Ian's face. Because he knows that Ian spent that week in bed crying quietly into his pillow, and then suddenly he was up and then he was gone. So instead he texts Mandy some cryptic shit about Ian being back in town but not being able to find him, some shit he knows will make one or the other of the idiot Milkovich siblings go find his baby brother and get him to come home.

It works, because a few days later Ian's back in the house, and a couple days after that, Mickey's asleep on their old bedroom floor. Fiona texts him from her room when she finds him that first night. Asks him if he knows what's up with Mickey fucking Milkovich sleeping on the ground in their house. Like a faithful dog, he thinks. He tells her it's complicated.

Complicated is a word for it, he thinks. Complicated doesn't capture the way Mickey looks at Ian over the breakfast counter like he's the only important thing in the world. Or the way that Ian's body turns towards Mickey when he's in the room. He sees that. He does.

He tries not to wonder how long this one's going to last.

Lip remembers when he first left for college, the way he was so worried that he'd be away when shit went down. How Fiona and everyone else reassured him. It would be okay. It would be okay and they could handle it. He should focus on college. He was fucking right to worry. He keeps being away when shit goes down.

Fiona calls him six times while he's in class. He lights an emergency cigarette and calls her back as soon as he's out the door. Braces himself for bad news. Frank finally dead or Carl broke his leg or something.

“Ian might be bipolar.”

He stops in the middle of the path and stands there in the snow while people walk around him. His hands are numb, and not because of the cold. Numb and buzzing. He's the big brother. But he can't protect Ian from shit like this.

It was only a matter of time, he thinks. One of them had to get it and Ian always had more Monica in him than Frank. It's not fair, he thinks, it shouldn't have been him. Hell, it shouldn't have to be any of us.

He goes home and he talks to Fiona and he doesn't go to the Milkovich house, partly because Mandy is there, partly because he knows that instinct to be the big brother, to _help_ will go nowhere. There's nothing he can do.

Instead he gets Mickey's number from Debbie and texts him from the safety of his own bedroom. Asks for the little details Fiona didn't bother to get. Learns about the fight at the Alibi. Learns about how Mickey's secret is out, how he's announced that he's a “fucking homo or whatever” to the world. Learns about how Ian won't get out of bed. Won't talk. Won't eat. Cries.

Depressed. Bipolar.

He sends Mickey the little advice he can give. Mickey never texts him back.

Summer comes and goes, Ian's up and smiling, Lip goes back to school, back to being away, and he wants to think that Ian's leveled out. He wants to think it was just a stress-induced fluke, a normal depression, even when it was over a month long. He wants to think everything's okay. Mickey seems to think it's all water under the bridge. Mickey seems to think it's all fine. That's not how it works when you're a Gallagher.

It's like this: Lip has been Ian's big brother for as long as he can remember. But now he's been reduced to phone calls: _Where the fuck are you. I'm worried about you. Ian call me back. Ian talk to me, we told each other everything remember?_

He's the one who gets the call from the police station in Indiana. The big brother. Doing his job.

Mickey and Carl are out of breath when they get to the house. Ran the whole way, eyes wide, hands twitching. Mickey's scared. Carl's just Carl. They wait for Fiona, at least until it gets dark. The longer they wait, the twitchier Mickey gets, and it's starting to wig Lip out, too, so he calls it quits. All of them piling into the car, Lip, Debbie, Carl, Mickey. If he drives fast enough, they can get there by midnight, maybe.

He and Debbie take turns trying to call Fiona. But she's gone dark, and he's starting to give up. Carl stares out the window. And Mickey is the most still Lip has ever seen him. Most of the time when he saw him Mickey was a clench-jawed force shoving his way towards something or somewhere. Even when Lip saw him sitting, solid and stable, he was twitching. In the back seat, he's utterly still.

And then, quietly: “I'm sorry. I should have listened to you.”

“Yeah, you should've.”

Lip can't help the little dig. He's the big brother. He knows what he's fucking doing. He knows Ian's favorite color and the way his upper lip twitches when he's really, really angry and how in the eighth grade he fucked Roger Spikey in a janitor's closet and that he still likes to make faces with his food sometimes like he's a little kid and he knows what it's like when someone is bipolar.

“I didn't know things could get this bad.” Mickey sounds defensive. Under that, he sounds terrified.

Lip almost gets it. The fear. Still. He's never really been anything but blunt. Sugar coating this shit wouldn't help. It would still be sugar-coated shit. “Could get worse. Could get much worse.”

In the rearview mirror, Mickey looks away, looks at Carl, looks down at his lap. Silent and still. It should be the end of the conversation. Because that's how Milkoviches operate: you give them an ultimatum and they ignore it or they fight it. It's the Milkovich way. It should be the end of the conversation. He looks back at the dark road. Silence, except for the tiny scuffs of Mickey's breath. Then Mickey inhales, sharp, scared, and breathes out everything that's happened since Ian finally got out of bed. The cleaning, the insomnia, the military funeral, the homophobic pastor, the sex, the morning runs and stupid jokes and never sleeping and every idea piling on top of itself, the rub n' tug closing, the suitcases, the—

He stops abruptly, like he's cutting himself off, but Lip catches Mickey's gaze in the rearview mirror and holds it. Holds it and stares at some raw nerve Ian has somehow torn free inside him. The hurt, the fear. Something that scared him so bad it came down to the hospital. To this. Mickey blinks and looks away.

The rest of the car ride is silent. Each of them staring out of a window into the night.

Bipolar.

Fucking hell.

So when they get to the station Mickey is out of the car before it even stops moving, is back to twitching, back to sitting in the hard seat in the waiting area, feet tapping, fingers clenching and unclenching against each other.

And then the door is opening and _oh shit_ that's his little brother being led out by the cop, heavy with sedation. Mickey's out of his seat half a second before Lip is but Lip gets to Ian first, because he's the big brother and it's his job to wrap his arms around Ian and mutter “Hey,” and try to find out without words if it's all going to be _okay_.

But Ian barely looks at him. Exhausted. Guilty. And Debbie's pushing in to hug him, to stare at him a little scared. It was always just normal to see their mother like this. Out of it on drugs. On medication. On depression. With Ian it's different. Because it's _Ian_.

And Mickey is stepping into Ian's space. Mickey is sliding his hand against the back of Ian's neck, nuzzling the side of his face. Mickey is cupping the back of Ian's head and pulling him down to his shoulder and hugging him hard and rocking him and breathing him in.

Mickey's breathing wet. Worry. Relief. That unnamed ache. Lip remembers.

Mickey pulls back, enough that Lip catches his eye and reaches for Ian. He can see Mickey twitching. Looking hurt. Looking lost. Looking at Lip, _Take care of Ian for me. Be a good big brother. I love him._ And Ian goes when Lip takes his arm, drifts next to him like a ghost. Like he's not even there. Like someone has stolen his baby brother and replaced him with a shell. Ian staring at the floor. Barely there. He and Debbie lead him away, shuffling slow, sleepwalking. Ian's jacket is still hanging on him barely-zipped. Lip reaches over and zips it up further. Like he used to when they were little. Like it's his job. Ian doesn't look up from the floor.

Mickey follows them out to the car with the baby in his arms, but his eyes are on Ian's back. Mickey follows them but his eyes are on Ian and his body is twitching in that direction. Debbie sees it, reaches out to take the baby, and she's always liked babies. As soon as Yevgeny is safe in Debbie's arms, Mickey's body slots itself in beside Ian. Easy, automatic.

Ian is swaying lightly in the sedative breeze. Mickey's hands reach out, steady him, slide around him, help him into the back seat of the car. A hand travels across Ian's shoulder to the side of his face, curling, gentle. Lip looks away when Mickey presses a kiss against Ian's temple. Like it's more intimate than any of the times he's ever walked in on Fiona fucking some guy.

In snapshot glances at the rearview mirror, he watches Ian fall asleep on Mickey's shoulder, watches Mickey messing gently with Ian's limp hand, watches Mickey turn his face into Ian's hair. Thinks, shit, this is heavier than I thought. I thought it was just a fling but Mickey's _still here_. All this and he's still here and I think maybe he actually loves Ian.

“We need to get him committed even if he doesn't want to go.” Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Mickey's going to drop Ian now. He glances in the mirror. Never mind. Mickey is clutching Ian's hand. Mickey's chest is heaving like he's hiding a panic attack just under his ribs.“We can just. Tell 'em that he kidnapped the kid, right, they have to take him? There's gotta be some kinda, like, 'danger to others' law, right?”

“That one could be complicated.”

He won't talk about all the times his mother screamed and threw things and ran away. Just to stay out of there. It won't help.

“Well, if he won't go I'm just gonna call the fucking cops on him.” Mickey's voice crowds itself for a moment. Holding back a sob. Holding back devastation. A fucking tsunami. “Tell them that he stole the baby. They'll—they'll put him away for a while. Least he'll be getting some kinda fucking help.”

“You did okay, Mickey. Y'know, you tried. That's a lot more than most people would do.”

In the mirror, Mickey shakes his head. Says nothing. They all pretend not to hear him swallow thickly, pretend they can't see the tears at the edges of his eyes. Right there. Refusing to be blinked away.

And he's the big brother, so he's the one that tells the receptionist and nurses what's going on. Ian nodding vaguely behind him. Mickey standing awkward and worried in the center of the room. Afraid to sit. Afraid to touch. Halfway to tears. Probably scared he's doing the wrong thing. So he takes the lead because Fiona's not answering her phone and Ian's half-gone and Mickey looks like if you brushed past him he'd collapse.

He's filling out forms. Like the times he's taken Debbie and Carl and Liam to the clinic. They all know each other's information. Date of birth. Social security number. Blood type. Allergies, illnesses, histories. Just in case. Just in case, like they aren't Gallaghers. Like one of them isn't breaking every other second.

This shouldn't be happening. He shouldn't be standing in this white, white room where his mother used to disappear. He shouldn't be signing his little brother away. Fiona shouldn't be running in all frantic and teary and wrapping her arms around Ian. Mickey shouldn't be standing helpless and silent behind them. But he filled out the forms. He touches Ian's shoulder gently.

“Just need your, uh, signature.”

Ian's looking back to Mickey. Judge, jury, executioner. Only that's not it. Not at all. Nothing about this is that cruel. Looking at Mickey for permission, or maybe approval. Looking for a nod. Mickey's looking halfway to broken. If Ian is distant and fogged, Mickey is in it, inside of it, sharp pain, sting behind the eyes. Hurt. Mickey's got his arms folded and maybe to anyone else he'd look angry but Lip can see how he's trying to fucking hold himself together.

And Ian signs the form and like a fucking signal has beamed out a nurse calls out his name and Ian looks up instead of looking at the floor and nods and turns away. Goes to Debbie holding Yevgeny. Kisses the baby and almost smiles.

Mickey is staring at him like he's scared of what will happen if he lets Ian out of his sight. And Ian just shakes his head, eyes back down to the floor. Guilty. Hurting. Mutters sorry. Walks away looking like he doesn't deserve Mickey's gaze.

Only Mickey obviously doesn't agree because he's moving to catch up. Because he's reaching out and pulling Ian in close and wrapping his arms around him so fucking tight. Lip can't see Mickey's face from here but he can see his shoulders shaking. He can see the way he cups the back of Ian's head, strokes his hair. The way his face is buried in Ian's shoulder.

“Can I go in with him?” Mickey's voice is thick with tears. Lip shifts. No one ever asked that when it was Monica. No one wanted to follow her in there. No one wanted to be with her, even if they were crying when she left. Even when she kissed their foreheads before she went in.

“No, I'm sorry.”

Mickey kisses Ian's shoulder. His hand is gentle and solid on Ian's back. Fiona has her hand on Ian's shoulder, too. Trying to be big sister. Trying to be the guardian. Trying. She's not the one who needs him to sleep. She's not the one who spent the summer trying to stave off mania with all that she had. Not the one with the raw nerve of unspoken pain in her eyes.

She's not the one who looks at that closing cage door like she's never going to see Ian again.

But they all watch him walk away. Terrified. Devastated. That fucking tsunami hit anyway.

As soon as Ian rounds the corner, Mickey's hands fly to his eyes, digging in with the heels of his palms. Reeling away from the door and out into the open waters of the waiting area. Right, Lip thinks, he's never seen this before. He's never done this before. Having family in and out of prison since you were three isn't the same as having family in and out of the mental hospital even before you could really comprehend what was going on. He's been there, done that. Heartbreaking, horrible, but it's old hat now. Mickey, though, Mickey looks like he's on the verge of collapse.

So maybe he can't be Ian's big brother right now the way he wants to. But he can do something.

“How'd you get here?” he asks Fiona softly, watching Mickey hunched and twitching in the middle of the room.

“Gus,” she tells him. “I wanted to take a cab but he drove me.”

“Can he take Carl and Debs? I'll take Mickey and his kid home.”

“Yeah, uh, sure.” She frowns at Mickey's back. “Think he'll be okay?”

“Dunno.”

So he approaches Mickey like maybe he's a frightened wild animal. Looks at the floor. But he stands next to him, not too close but close enough that Mickey gets it when Lip shoves his hands in his pockets and mumbles, “I'll drive you home, yeah.” And Mickey wipes his hands down his face. Wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and nods. Swallows back a hitch in his breath and straightens his shoulders just as Debbie appears at his side with the baby in her arms.

And in the car on the way home, Mickey is silent and still again. The baby in his lap is asleep, thumb between his tiny lips, face turned into Mickey's stomach. The road crunches quietly under the tires. It's the middle of the day but it feels like it's three in the morning. Lip feels exhausted. Mickey must be ready to drop. He wonders how long he's been trying to keep up with Ian. He can hear Mickey trying not to sniffle.

Lip thinks about all the things he knows about his brother and Mickey Milkovich. At some point, maybe even before that fucking fight at the Alibi, Mickey must have decided that Ian was it for him. The kill for you, die for you, do fucking anything at all, Milkovich type of 'it'.

That's heavy stuff.

Mickey is staring out the window. It's too fucking bright outside and the rims of his eyes are red and swollen. He ducks his head every time another car coasts up beside them. Lip wants to turn the radio on but he won't. Mickey rubs at his mouth.

Lip shifts in his seat. “You, uh, you love him?”

The sharp Milkovich glare is softened by unshed tears and Mickey's lost expression. He bites his lip, looks down at the baby in his lap. Blinks rapidly for a moment. “Yeah,” mangled by a break in his voice. He clears his throat, swallows. “Yeah,” stronger this time. More sure. Mickey's gaze is intense on the side of his face, maybe daring him to say something, maybe just hurt and staring. Lip feels like a protective big brother but surprises himself by nodding. “Good. I thought so.”

Somehow with that the matter is settled. The drive is silent and Mickey is still until the sign says two miles until the exit towards home and then his fingers twitch against the windowsill and his feet dig against the floor of the car. He rubs his mouth again and looks at Lip out of the corner of his eye. Lip can see his chest jumping again, nervous, breathing hard. Mickey swallows.

“Think he's gonna be okay?”

And Lip has never heard Mickey Milkovich sound so small and scared. But Mickey loves Ian and he's the big brother and it's his job, so he just nods. “Yeah, I think he'll be okay, Mickey. I think so.”

Mickey blows out a shuddering breath and looks back out the window toward the looming Chicago skyline.

And when he's parked in front of the Milkovich house and Mickey has gathered his things and shut the car door, Lip rolls down the window and calls up to him. “You gonna be okay, man?”

Mickey swallows and bites his lip and glances at Lip out the corner of his eye. Looks down at the sleeping baby in his arms and shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

He watches Mickey's hunched shoulders climb the steps and unlock the door and slip into the house. Hears the the door slam from the street. Even through the sheets on the windows he can see the shadow of Mickey in the living room. He wonders if he's doing his job right. Taking care of Ian. Being the big brother. He's not taking beat downs anymore or giving advice. They don't tell each other everything like they used to and he's not sure what questions to ask now. He wonders if he should talk to Ian when he gets out of the hospital. He wonders if he has the right anymore. Ian has Mickey, doesn't he? He's still fucking here, isn't he? He wonders if that's a good enough replacement. He wonders if he should thank Mickey for trying so hard. He wonders if he should thank Mickey for taking his place. He wonders if he should thank Mickey for loving his little brother.

 


End file.
